


if you weren't mine I'd be jealous of your love

by aflashofgreen



Series: ripe for anarchy [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are Cousins, Light Angst, Making Out, Organized Crime, despite the summary there is no daensa content in this fic, everything is just a plot device so i can write about sansa comforting our local sad boi, including the questionable mob setting, sansa and dany are engaged for plot reasons that's all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27538456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflashofgreen/pseuds/aflashofgreen
Summary: In the midst of a deadly tug of war between different crime families, Sansa Stark is set to marry Daenerys Targaryen. The one where Jon and Sansa are in love.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: ripe for anarchy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012830
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	if you weren't mine I'd be jealous of your love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollfacerobot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollfacerobot/gifts).



> If you read _don’t you know who you’re dealing with_ , this is not a prequel to that fic, just an alternative take on the same premise where Sansa and Dany are arranged to be married.
> 
> My thanks to hilarychuff for beta-reading.
> 
> Dedicated to Sophia, again, because it’s her birthday and she’s the best.
> 
> Title from Venice Bitch by Lana Del Rey.

“You know what I was thinking? In a different world, you’re the one who made me Sansa Targaryen.”

The way she stands with her back against the wall, arms crossed behind her, she’s the picture of easy composure, looking as much like a jittery bride-to-be as she does a crestfallen lover. That Jon feels more anxiety at the prospect of her marriage than she does is evident.

It’s a quiet evening for the Stark household tonight. They don’t have many of those at the moment, or much time left living all under the same roof, which is why the two of them are currently shut up inside his room. Sansa sat him down on the bed when they stole away here, removing his gun holster and lying it down on the nightstand before taking her spot leaning against the wall opposite him.

“You don’t have to take her name,” he answers in an effort to sidestep the subject. “You can remain a Stark.” Whatever she needs to make the marriage more palatable, Jon thinks, but then comes her answer and he wishes he were more surprised by her accommodating attitude.

“I don’t mind.” Jon would believe her from her tone alone, but this isn’t the first evidence of her nonchalance when it comes to her wedding since the idea was first introduced. She has agreed to it, and while she doesn’t walk towards the altar with unabashed enthusiasm, her mind is made up that she will make the journey.

A selfish desire that she would be more vexed rises in his gut, but he willfully sets it aside before it can take root and sour what they still share. There’s an inevitable divide ahead of them; this relationship has an expiration date. It’d be smarter to walk away now, but Jon has opted to be stupid for as long as possible, which is why his jealousy cannot be her concern. Any heartache Sansa might be spared is a cause for elation, not inconsiderate chagrin. If she can make the best of her circumstances, certainly he can strive to do the same, especially when she’s wearing that soft look on her face.

“I only wish it was your name too.”

Still, he can’t help but swallow before he asks her, “Targaryen or Stark?”

“Whichever, so long as we had the same,” is her easy answer. “It’d be something tangible that could never be torn by anyone and let them all know, right away, we’re bound together. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

 _Nice_ is one way to put it. To Jon, it sounds perfect. Ideal. Impossible.

“Bastards don’t get the fancy surname or the fancy girl.” It’s true enough, though not entirely accurate because _this_ bastard might have had _this_ girl if either of them had been willing to fess up to her father while they still could. For the love he bore them both, Ned Stark might have once been inclined to give Jon his daughter's hand had his nephew asked.

But he hadn’t asked and now the Stark patriarch is dead, each of his children and Jon wear a target on their backs, and there can be no other talk than of survival. Whispers reach their ears, plentiful and contradictory, but all alarming. The Boltons turned on them, making away with too much knowledge that the Lannisters have wasted no time in exploiting. It’s the fucking wild west in the streets with brawls that end in gunshots fired or blades drawn, and blood always. The police keep bringing in their men for questioning, one betting shop has already been closed, and two of the Mormonts’ racehorses were confiscated.

Early on, Catelyn proposed meeting with someone new, someone powerful. Her eyes had fixed on Jon when she was done talking, daring him to find fault in her solution to keeping her children alive. He couldn’t — but it wasn’t his call to make, nor hers. Robb took his mother’s counsel and, when Sansa’s betrothal was secured, the hand he placed on Jon’s shoulder had been meant in a gesture of sympathy, but his gentler concern for any hurt feelings could go no further.

This is the way it is, and they get on with it. Sansa is set to make an advantageous marriage; they all will if they must. Though he is only a Snow, Jon’s prospects don’t have to be different from his cousins’ considering his rank in the family business. It is that very position, however, that made him an ineligible groom for Sansa when the notion had been introduced that they needed new friends.

“It’s only a ring.” Sansa’s voice pulls him away from his thoughts. He looks up to see her in the same casual pose, only with her head cast down while she tries to downplay her upcoming nuptials. “She could give me a thousand, and that wouldn’t make me any more or less hers than I am now,” Sansa says of her fiancée before marking a pause in her speech, lifting her gaze and eyeing him like she expects him to contradict her. He could very well do so because they’re both well aware it’s not simply a matter of donning a white dress, exchanging vows at the altar, and slipping on a wedding band. This union will seal the new alliance Robb has brokered for the Direwolves. It means lucrative business ventures and, more importantly, safety. Daenerys has the same enemies they do, and her vengeful streak is already well established. Their marriage will never bear fruit in any biological sense of the phrase, but there’ll be blood spilled all the same.

Jon knows all this, has thought long on it, too long. Sansa stands before him, earnest in her transparent attempt to lift his spirits. He’s only too willing to put sense aside for the rest of the night and listen as she pledges herself to _him_.

“I love you. I choose you.” It’s as honest a declaration as any — and how he knows it’s the truth for she’s said it often enough in the past, shown him, and he’s felt it too just as he feels it now — and so simple. If there are sweeter arrangements of words in the English language, he doesn’t care to hear them unless she’s the one saying them. These sound mighty fine to him.

“Come here, sweetheart.” Distance won’t stand right now. When she’s within reach, he draws her closer still until she’s straddling him, her arms coming up around his neck. With eyelids closed, he feels her card fingers through his hair while his own itch where they meet her body, resting lightly on her hips. He doesn’t realize how tightly wound he’s been holding himself until he feels the tension seep away with one stroke of her knuckles over his cheek, the action beckoning him to her in a far better way than his gentle command had her, surely. No, he corrects himself, lifting his eyes open. Sansa enjoys nothing more than to contest him on everything, and when he meets her gaze, the same pull he feels seems reflected on her face.

“I am your sweetheart,” she agrees, staring down into his eyes. “And you’re mine.”

He couldn’t fight his grin if he tried. “Where’s my eloquent girl gone to?”

“Shall I write you some verses, Jon? You know I can.” Contained in her tone is the barest hint of challenge, like she’ll grab a pen and paper right now and set herself to the task if that’s what he requires. He loves that side of her, that Stark courage, defiant and more than a little rebellious, that makes her eager to prove him or anyone, sometimes even herself, wrong. They all think her weak and too soft for this life, blind to the simple truth that she’s made it this far when so many haven’t. If her sensibilities are gentler than that of most people around here, it’s just as well she inherited her mother’s sharp wit. Let him stand in the line of fire. Sansa can be considered no less strong for it.

“No,” he answers her, “but I’m afraid you’ve left me with nothing. I’m not the poet you are.”

“I’ve left you speechless?” she teases, running the smooth pads of her fingers over his lips. He nods his assent, and feels the caress of her breath over his face as she whispers her next sentence. “Poor lamb. Is there naught else you know how to do with your mouth besides speaking?” She’s lowering her face down to his before she’s even finished speaking, swiftly replacing the touch of her fingertips with that of her lips. Jon takes his time kissing her, his tongue sliding over hers in deep, languid strokes. When she wiggles closer on his lap, his hands help her settle where it’ll feel best for them both, and Sansa sighs his name in response.

“Aye, baby.” He breathes his reply against the skin of her throat, follows it with the press of a kiss under her chin before judiciously following the path upwards that leads to that spot at the juncture of jawline and ear where she’s ticklish. One hand falls to his shoulder from where it was grasping the back of his neck, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt to let him know when he’s found it.

“That’s the third endearment you’ve called me tonight already.” Jon hums in reply, half confirmation, half question, at the same time dragging his palms down her legs and then back up. Sansa’s dress is caught between them so that he’s unable to pull it back in the same motion, so he moves on for now, not stopping his progression until he reaches the swell of her arse, giving it a squeeze. Sansa responds with a small jerk forward that is only a sample of how he wants to feel her move over him and adds, “I’m pointing it out, since you’ve proclaimed yourself to be so bad at talking.”

“Not bad, darling, just not as good as you.”

“Don’t stop,” she urges, pleasure seeping through her voice. “I’m keeping count now for the rest of the night.”

He will never stop if that’s all it takes to make her happy, though, of course, it isn’t. In a different world he’s allowed to fall on one knee before her, and she’s free to answer yes because it’s what she desires, not because she’s been tasked to. He’d work some boring office job, they all would, and guns and violence would be faraway concepts, just ink on the pages of the newspapers rather than their reality. When he’d kiss her, it wouldn’t be in stolen moments and clandestine meetings behind closed doors, and all she might ever crave would be his to give to her. That last part, at least, he can still try to accomplish in this lifetime in whatever small way still available. There can be no cause more just in life than dedicating oneself to Sansa Stark’s happiness. He’ll tell her as much when his mouth is not as preoccupied and his mind less foggy now she’s started writhing on his lap. Those words should be pleasing to her too.

“As you wish, love.”


End file.
